I was flying to Melbourne at 1.30pm. I took the kids to
school then lingered with the four year old at pre-school. By the time I got
home it was 9.45am. I decided to print out my itinerary before starting to pack
my bags.
I pulled my itinerary up on screen, and nearly vomited on my
keyboard.
The flight was at 10.55am. I needed to be at the airport
within forty minutes. It was at least a half hour drive.
OH MY GOD. I began shaking. I picked up the phone to call a
cab but a) couldn’t remember the number of the taxi service, and b) couldn’t
remember how to use a phone.
After a couple of precious, wasted minutes I retrieved
my brain, dialled the number, booked the cab, and frantically threw some items
in a suitcase. Not, sadly, any pyjamas, or toothpaste, or indeed a top to wear
the next day, but ‘items’ nonetheless.
The cab arrived within minutes and I jumped inside, trying
to control my breathing.
“What time do you need to be at the airport?” the driver
asked.
“10.25am,” I answered him. “If I’m not there by then I won’t
be able to check in.”
The driver looked worried. I began to sweat.
We arrived at the airport at 10.20am. I had five minutes to
spare. I punched the air with relief and went to the automatic check-in.
YOU CANNOT GET ON THE
PLANE it told me (or words to that effect, I began hyperventilating at that
point).
“WHY???” I asked it, nearly sobbing.
BECAUSE I AM CRUEL
AND WISH TO MAKE YOU SUFFER it said. (I may be making this part up.)
I went to the counter, sobbing for real now.
“I can’t check in,” I told the lady. She looked kind and I
knew she would help me.
“That’s because you’re late,” she said coldly. I realised
she was an evil ice queen and my tears turned to hatred.
“But I’m on time,”
I said. “The flight is at 10.55!”
“It was changed to 10.50,” she told me. “The notification
was sent to the person who booked the flight.”
“But that wasn’t me!”
I cried.
“That’s protocol,” said the Ice Queen. She made my tears run
cold.
I paid $100 and got on the next flight, a mere ninety-minutes
of mindless hell later. I bought myself an egg sandwich to eat on board, and
killed time by reading about celebrity cellulite.
We boarded the plane, and I began eating my sandwich, only
to choke on it about four bites in. I tried to cough it up but my eyes started
watering and I couldn’t catch my breath. I was dying! I was dying!
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| Artist's (pretty accurate except for Spongebob) impression of me |
So I got out of my seat and ran up to the front of the plane,
shouting “Hit me! Hit me!” to the flight attendants.
They did, and I survived. I also scored the entire front row
all to myself. Extra leg room and all. I think the crew wanted to keep me away
from the other passengers.
Air travel is so tiresome.
